He was not merely a victim.
He was part of whatever came next.
Then a final message arrived.
This one contained no photograph.
Only seven words.
**YOUR GRANDFATHER’S WILL WAS NEVER ABOUT MONEY.**
I read the sentence twice.
“What does that mean?” Wyatt asked.
I looked at the brass key inside the evidence bag.
At the hospital window reflecting my bandaged face.
At the life I thought I understood collapsing piece by piece.
Somewhere in Columbus, Melanie and Walter were together.
My grandfather had hidden millions.
My parents had tried to kill me for them.
And yet the last message claimed the fortune was not the real secret.
Detective Beckett’s phone rang.
He answered, listened, and slowly turned toward me.
“What?” I demanded.
His face had gone pale.
“The warehouse mentioned in the message burned down twelve years ago.”
“The year Grandpa died?”
“Yes.”
“Then why send us there?”
